Every doorway is well lit yet barred and locked.
This is my dream body, it is chasing its twilit shadow
down blind alleyways
pausing only to heave breathlessly
as it comes to a stop
in yet another walled-off cul-de-sac.
Daylight couples slyly with moonlight,
it forms a vaporous union that creeps under skin,
We are two hands and a mouth,
weak hands scratching upon a lid of fear.
We call such mind-hauntings: nightmares,
yet they seem so very real
as we fretfully slumber -
then they chase us remorselessly
through our daily lives.
Why record such fantasies,
these myriad variations of horror?
Why relive the frights, the needling frets
of these subconscious ghost trains - images
that fly through all our darkly hidden spaces.
Perhaps only to share an elusive puzzle-picture,
to reach into other sequestered minds
that may experience the same
other-worldly hinterlands, the same fear-threads,
and there know we are crisscrossing
the same unidentifiable landscapes
all of us have created for ourselves.
All through wee hours of the morning
Laminga search their missing persons, mourning
The track that leads to Amurum forest
Are traces of blood stain northwest
They search until sunrise by the river bend,
Where headless bodies on the water meet an end.
The corpses littered, unidentifiable,
Vultures grunt, tension grows so palpable.
This was another midnight massacre
When men slept, this ambush occurs
Bukuru have breached the truce
So all hell now must be let loose.
We must return to war
The young ebullient youth swore
To avenge the innocent blood of their past
Their heart drumming so fast
It is war that has no end
For this we no longer pretend
A tale of hate, of who must claim the land,
Passed down by each generation's hand.
In fighting over what's their due,
Tens of thousands snuffed too.
As senseless conflicts and retaliation
Have become their everlasting damnation
London was still full of
fire-bombed vacant lots.
Ruins and rubble
were a kids natural playground,
the deeper the devastation
the better our play.
There was always a chance
to find a broken toy
to abuse.
Back at home,
not once did we consider
what that unidentifiable
gray soot-like substance
on our clothes contained,
but at night
our dreams were troubled
by the eerie whistling
of long dead postmen.
Crisscrossing streets in a city landscape
a place where the mind panics
wanting to be found
or to find, or not be lost within.
Every doorway is well lit yet barred and locked.
This is my dream body, it is chasing its twilit shadow
down blind alleyways
pausing only to heave breathlessly
as it comes to a stop
in yet another walled-off cul-de-sac.
Daylight couples slyly with moonlight,
it forms a vaporous union that creeps under my skin,
I am two hands and a mouth (not my own yet)
scratching upon a lid of fear.
Why record such fantasies?
Why relive the minor horrors, the needling angst
of subconscious ghost trains - images
that fly through darkling places.
Perhaps only to share an illusive puzzle-picture
to reach into other sequestered minds
that just may experience the same
other-worldly hinterland
and there know we are crisscrossing
the same unidentifiable cityscape.
fine lines sketched into my mirror
how did they get there? weathering
the decades, furrowed brow, creased
eyes with bags am i an old bag -
nonsense.
the mirror crack'd with an angry
whiplash i had to take a look
at my life, evaluate, extenuate
my outlook. hope for this old hag -
that kind of self talk for the birds.
bright city lights, broadway trimmed
my mirror looking extravagant, even
with its pits, spots, wrinkles of time
better lived than alone
am i a crackpot? If i am
i’m sipping from a loving cup
grateful for the full ride
i abide in the faithful arms
of Jesus Christ
his mirror was treacherous, scarred
his countenance was cracked
so much so that he was unidentifiable
except for the blood that loved
that exuded pure love
if i’m proud, my self is humbled
i’ll take those tracks - there is
traction in suffering and giving back
to my fellow man
lightly i cover up those wrinkles
only to blend this well-lived face
i face my reflection, satisfied
without indiscretion’s distraction
3/10/2023
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Sponge-brained Bobby gulped air
through his underwater respirator.
Alien squid pulsed signaling sentience,
its bulbous head
swelling as it curiously explored
the artificial sea-life before it.
Bobby the deep-diver waved,
made rude inexplicable signs
with his five fingered flippers.
Alien squid
reported the sighting,
but his meeting with the frogman
could not be confirmed,
and so the giant squid populous
kept on believing
that they were the only intelligent life form
in the entire watery universe,
and they were right
on so many fathomless levels.
From a flick of a moment,
at the blink of my eyes,
the light was stolen straight from my eyes.
As a baby, they were big and hopeful.
As a child, they danced a joyous dance.
Making them unidentifiable to the human eye,
making them wonder, what color are your eyes?
From a flick of a moment,
at the blink of my eyes,
the light shined brightly straight from my eyes.
The eyes are the gateway to the soul,
my gateway was wide open,
open to all to see the performance,
of my soul dancing magnificently.
But at a flick of a moment,
at the blink of my eyes,
from the words that were said,
the light was stolen straight from my eyes.
The eyes are the gateway to the soul,
mine is now a prison,
locked up tightly,
to the soul of a person,
you can not find.
But if you so must,
want to try.
Just know that in the pupil of my eye,
there is a soul,
looking for the center of my eye.
A Plan for the Unplanned angels unborn,
Pray as they play in the sadness,
remembering irreversible commitments.
Sing to the sorrows of those forever haunted by ghosts of the unwanted seeds of the wanton.
Genetically modified indistinct and unidentifiable,
Tubes tested, ligation's tied
ethics and morals twisted and fried,
Hope and love battered and tried.
Prepare,
For the long journey ahead is full of grievance;
that pain that persists past abdominal cramps and bleeding;
reran dreams of babies screaming;
and learning unanswered questions, don't die
but breed a multitude of why's and tumultuous cries.
Unforgiveness,
that internal conflict between self and soul; the refusal or inability to let one or the other go;
that decision that's ultimately yours and yours alone.
One way or the other-- you will carry.
either remiss or plan the unplan and reminisce on what was, is, or would have been.
Traversing the Imagination
Maybe I’ll drift to mindless places
Where wishes and wants
Have lost all traces
Traversing the heavens
To unknown destinations
Ahh, yes.. this makes me smile.
Maybe I’ll drift to unidentifiable places
Where all of imagination
Is stored in databases
Traversing new story lines
Playing let’s pretend
Ahh, yes... this makes me smile.
Maybe I’ll write about these places
To make others smile
as fun embraces
Traversing abstract lines
on kaleidoscopic worlds
Ohh, yes… this makes me smile.
Copy-write@ Debra Squyres 09/29/2019
All rights reserved
LOOKING AT A MAP OF THE PACIFIC
A big blue squarish shape of paper
But without edges as limits.
Over each swash of this blue bigness
Are names printed to identify the unidentifiable.
A strait or a bay or a gulf or channel may let you try
To grasp the sea or bight or other patch of blue; but
Are identical in ways unseen by all but an experienced sailor.
All salty, all stormy, all endlesssly deep.
The names are no help in grasping
The limitless wetness of the thing.
All salty, all stormy, all endlesssly deep.
Its big blue wetness,
Its wet blue bigness,
Its big wet blueness.
16 September 2019
I took a hike in Bramble Bog,
and reveled in the croaking frogs;
the singing crickets and river song,
were lovely, so I whistled along.
By the river, on a great cypress branch,
upon which, I chanced to glance,
sat a bull and two young elves;
they were doing something swell!
Clearly, I’d walked into a peculiar land;
elves and bull behaved like man.
There they sat, painting away,
with brush and canvas, on a field day.
I’d never disrupt this cheery band,
for they had such talented hands;
and cloven hoof with paint-filled brush,
was painting a portrait of a tiny thrush.
I snapped a picture with my cell,
quietly so they’d never tell;
and slipped away into the wood,
believing I had something good.
Oh, my friends would all love this,
I went home in ecstatic bliss.
but, when I went to show my friends,
I noticed something on the lens.
The picture was a blotchy mess,
an unidentifiable, amorphousness.
There was nothing to show my friends
and I never saw that sight again.
A curious thing in my backpack,
was a canvas framed all in black.
A tiny note, there beside,
read, “Elvin magic, we’ve applied...
surprise!”
There is a whirling of color-
impressions and pulses of raw being-
-unidentifiable-
- intangible -
shards that wiggle and pulse
through a cortex of subconscious
just invisible to my knowing.
I am raw.
A sieve for the experiences I can not name.
A building of thunderclaps and swells.
Give me release.
Give me not this irrational deflection
twirling definitves with misinterpretations.
Give me acute sorrow, that I can name.
Give me the source of anger so I can rage-
let the fire burn to embers
and mourn the smoke that clouded my foresight.
Give me wisdom before I repeat all my errors.
AND THEN IT HAPPENED Part 3
She invited me to join her. I wondered what was on her mind. As we entered her suite, the glitz and glamor of a celebrity lifestyle overwhelmed me. She hurriedly shut the door and beckoned me to follow. She led me into an elaborately furnished room with the slight fragrance of freshly cut roses mingled with an unidentifiable heady aroma. She had me take a seat and disappeared into yet another room. My imagination was running wild. I had thoughts that were almost embarrassing.
And then it happened . . . .
HEAVY HAIR
Blackness without astral shine
With weight: not color or texture, but heaviness
To withstand the breeze that ripples a blonder shock,
It moved as one, no gap between any pair
Of its black praetorians.
Infinite and dimensionless against the black matt coat
They disappeared measureless,
Could not be defined, only accepted.
Pendulum-like as the train swung,
They swung slow and well-disciplined,
Each strand unidentifiable as the seconds in a day;
Yet each contributed
Crucially to the orchestration -
Uncountable, but none might be ignored.
Strands of time are all known to Time’s creator.
As in a dream not yet dreamt,
A potential vision not even focused,
Controlled but impossible.
The sort of dream Mozart might have had:
Unscored yet existing.
…………………………………………………………………………….
NOTE
Written in admiration of a young woman’s black hair observed on a crowded train-ride
a large unidentifiable creature
was washed up bloody on the beach
and a four km long circular structure was spotted
slowly crawling across the ocean floor
elliptical bases held up by pillars
are resting underwater outside the coasts
and there are pyramids lurking
beneath the Bermuda triangle
there's something that has to know
her deep secret will eat us up,
play with our minds, and teach us to find
the paraphernalia and minutia of our own bodies--
of our own world--
before we cross the water
and see ourselves as powerful giants
who can conquer the elements.
and the men with their helmets
are in awe of their own actions
as they set up the trussing
like she never created it first
her deep secret will eat them up
and leave them bloody on the beach
her deep secret will eat us up
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